


29 Days of Clint and Nat Whump

by incogniteau



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Amputation, Asphyxiation, Beating, Begging, Blind Character, Blindness, Branding, Burns, Captivity, Chains, Character Death, Chemical Weapons, Child Abuse, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clintasha - Freeform, Corporal Punishment, Cults, Deaf Clint Barton, Dehumanization, Dehydration, Dissociation, Drowning, Electrocution, Emeto Trigger Warning, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fever, Flogging, Force-Feeding, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Headaches & Migraines, Humiliation, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt Natasha Romanov, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Influenza, Loss of hope, Malaria, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Nausea, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Pain, Physical Abuse, Public Humiliation, Public Nudity, Punishment, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, Slavery, Starvation, Stomach Ache, Strangulation, Strike Team Delta, Thoughts of death, Victim Blaming, Wanting to Vomit, Whipping, Whump, chemical burns, comforted by abuser, dislocaton, domestic abuse, emaciation, forced to hurt another, platonic clintasha, public whump, sold at auction, suffocation, teeth knocked out, wetting in fear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 15,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22513303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogniteau/pseuds/incogniteau
Summary: This will be a series of (probably) drabbles featuring Nat and Clint whump of various situations and degrees. Warnings will be added as the series continues.Link to 29 Day Whump Challenge from yuckwhump over on tumblr in the notes.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Edith Barton, Clint Barton & Kate Bishop & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Laura Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Tony Stark, Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Clintasha
Comments: 12
Kudos: 98
Collections: Feb-Whump-Ary





	1. Day 1: Dehydration

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [this awesome February whump challenge](https://yuckwhump.tumblr.com/post/190405149090/29-day-whump-challenge-ive-put-together-a-list-of) by @yuckwhump and wanted to give it a try. Most of these will probably just be drabbles featuring Clint and/or Nat as I am using it as a fun way to just get myself to write EVERYDAY, to not feel as though I have to write an epic of Tolkien proportions to consider my writing a “success”, to become more comfortable sharing my work, and to become more involved in this wonderful Marvel fanfic community.

~~Vomiting~~ || **Dehydration**

Warnings: implied character deaths, whump

\- o - o - o - o -

The canteens that held their water ran out some time ago; neither Clint nor Natasha have any sense of the time that passed since, but Natasha thinks they’ve been in the middle of the desert, abandoned, for at least five days total now. She and Clint lie on their backs in the torrid sand, having lost the energy to carry on without a means of continuing fluid replenishment. They see no relief in the forms of any shade from trees or shrubbery.

Their bodies feel as if they’ve been filled with Totalsorb®, all moisture sucked away. They blink dry eyes in attempt to conjure tears to combat the grit from the sand settled in their lids, but it doesn’t help. Uniforms are stiff and stained with the salt left behind from evaporated sweat, and their lips are desiccated and flaking, stinging fissures forming, but they’re too dry to bleed. Tongues stick in their mouths.

Natasha and Clint breathe slight, hurried breaths, and their heartbeats flutter and feel so rapid in their chests. Dizziness causes their visions to swim.

“Look,” he says, though with his arid mouth, it comes out more as “-ook.” He tries to point up to the sky at what he sees through exhausted, half-slit eyes, but his arm may as well have the density of a neutron star. There is no way he’s picking it up.“SHIELD helicopters. We’re goin’ home.”

Her lucidity allows her to see what is really there. Vultures. She and Clint are actively _dying_ , already beginning the decay process, the methyl mercaptan their bodies giving off attracting the birds of prey. The two of them will soon be carrion. The birds will wait them out.


	2. Day 2: Chained Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of 29 Days of Clint and Nat Whump.
> 
> Natasha finds herself captured and chained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Challenge found [here](https://yuckwhump.tumblr.com/post/190405149090/29-day-whump-challenge-ive-put-together-a-list-of).
> 
> Warnings: descriptions of pain, whump

~~Broken Bone~~ || ~~Tied or~~ **Chained Up**

\- o - o - o - o -

Trussed up in the middle of an underground bunker, Natasha Romanoff no longer feels her fingertips. The tightness of the chains around her wrists coupled with the blood leaving due to gravity forces her hands to tingle and numb. Her arms pulled up so high above her, her feet are nearly off the filthy, sawdust laden floor, and she dances on tiptoes in an attempt to gain some small amount of purchase. A false step or a stumble, and she could find her upper arms being wrenched from their sockets.

Much of Natasha’s weight is borne upon her shoulders causing her back to bow and her chest to thrust out. Heated fingers of pain crawl along the sinew and muscles of her axillae and the feeling of fire presses heavily at the small of her back. She fails to find a position that offers any relief. Stretched such as she is, she finds it hard to take in any substantial breaths. Instead, they are shallow, teasing intakes of air.

Her wrists sting; the shackles are decrepit and rusted and bits of iron oxide lance into her skin. She knows she is red, irritated, and bloody beneath the manacles. When they first bound her, of course she fought to escape, but it served to only rub her skin raw. If she gets out of here, she’ll need to take care to avoid serious infection.

_NO. Not “if”, but “WHEN.”_

Natasha’s mind tries blocking out the pain she’s experiencing; they’ve left her hanging like this for hours. Any inhale sends an acute pain darting through her ribcage. She knows nothing of their plans for her. She must not accept her situation as finite and without hope, but maintaining that mentality utilizes her waning energy.

_I will tell them nothing; they will not break Black Widow._

_And Clint will find me; I know he will find me._


	3. Day 3: Drugged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 of 29 Days of Clint and Nat Whump.
> 
> Clint wakes up in a strange place and feeling not right at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: whump, descriptions of being drugged

~~Loved One Killed~~ || **Drugged**

\- o - o - o - o -

His head feels as though it’s a balloon, buoyant, yet a dense thickness presses against his skull. Why does his head feel so disconnected from his body? Slowly he’s pulled from unconsciousness, and he looks up through tunnel vision to a large industrial ceiling fan with blades about 15 feet long. He guesses they’ve taken him to some sort of warehouse, but he bears no idea where.

Clint sees himself being lugged and dragged through vague flashes of images and an obscure lens; he watches this happen to him like he’s an observer even as he experiences it. He’s manhandled and stumbles over his feet while figures of shadow yank him to where ever the end destination may be. He’s so very tired, like a whole new level of exhausted. Instead of blood running through his veins, it might as well be the lethargic trudging of syrup. Why can’t they just pick him up and carry him? He wouldn’t fight them.

His altered senses make his arms appear as though they’re miles long, like any command or nerve impulse from his brain would take years to reach them. And where are his legs? He can’t feel his legs. He has no legs! It’s a colossal undertaking, but Clint manages to shift just enough to see through a blurry, black-edged view that he, indeed, still possesses his legs. At least that’s something.

Clint can’t see who enters the room, but he hears heavy footfalls of combat boots.

“What are you going to do to me?” Clint’s words come out garbled. His mouth, like the rest of his body, feels weighted, thick, and slow, and he can’t get it to work completely properly. A sticky smear of dried saliva adorns the left side of his chin.

A small upturn of the mouth to the side; a look of daggers that Clint doesn’t catch. “The question isn’t what am I going to do you. The question is what have I _already done to you_.”


	4. Day 4: Force-Fed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 of 29 Days of Clint and Nat Whump.
> 
> Clint is subjected to being force-fed as a means of torture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: whump, force-feeding, descriptions of pain, descriptions of nausea/emeto
> 
> A couple of years ago, I had a horrible health crisis (almost died, in a coma for ten days, in the hospital for six weeks) and was subjected to feeding through an NG tube for about a month. It was very unpleasant; not as bad as Clint’s experience though. But I do use some things I felt and went through in his story. And there’s nobody specifically in mind as “The Doctor”; I just thought it sounded ominous.

~~Beaten~~ || **Force-fed** ~~or Hand-fed~~

\- o - o - o - o -

Clint lies face up on a vinyl medical table in a crucifix position. Straps tether him at the ankles, thighs, upper arms, wrists, and forehead. He’s in a thickly walled concrete room. _Where nobody can hear me scream_ , he thinks. Adding to his sense of trepidation is the fact that an IV stand with a clamp attached sits near his head. Clint’s surprised no rusty and outdated surgical tools from the 1800s hang on the walls.

He hears the door clang open, and he assumes it’s the man who has previously introduced himself only as “The Doctor.” Though, with the black, leather apron and surgical mask covering half of his face, he appears more suited to play the role of “Victorian butcher.” Inadvertently Clint’s pulse quickens. The Doctor flips a switch near the door, and the surgical lamp turns on. Clint squints against the garish light. He is disturbingly on display.

“There we go. A spotlight for the star of our show,” The Doctor says with a hint of delight, voice slightly muffled behind the mask.

Clint sees him pull a funnel and a long section of tubing out of the front pocket of the apron; he places the funnel in the clamp on the IV stand, and Clint realizes what is about to happen.

“No! No, please!” Clint pleads. This is just one more thing that will strip away at any remaining control he has over what is done to him.

The Doctor takes one end of the tubing and brings it toward Clint’s nose. Clint wants to thrash his head around, move it out of his tormentor’s reach, but the forehead strap prohibits him. Soon the tube enters his right nostril, the stiff plastic harshly scrapes at the delicate sinus tissue, seemingly on the verge of being too big for the confining space. Clint feels it beginning to enter his throat, and he automatically forces his tongue against it to keep it from advancing.

“Ah, ah, ah,” The Doctor warns. “In order to make this go smoothly, you must swallow.”

The Doctor increases the pressure, and Clint’s tongue gives way, but he doesn’t swallow. Instead, his gag reflex kicks in when he feels the tube at the back of his throat, and he dry heaves. Next, he coughs and chokes, unable to catch his breath; his eyes widen in panic.

“Whoops, accidentally went down into the trachea; sorry about that.” No trace of genuine apology lies in the sadist’s voice. “I told you to swallow,” he admonishes.

The Doctor draws the tubing from Clint’s windpipe slower than necessary relishing in Clint’s agonized hacking, repositions it, and begins to advance again. This time Clint sighs and gives in; he gulps and gulps and the tube goes down. Clint then watches him attach the other end to the funnel waiting on the IV stand; he can poison him, introduce any number of damaging reagents into him, and Clint is powerless against it. He swallows thickly; the tube taunts the back of his throat.

“One moment.”

Clint is left alone sweating beneath the heat of the lamp. He thinks of Cooper and how he’s so proud of the man his son is growing into; a young man who looks after his younger brother and sister with vigilance, who respects his mother like she’s the one who makes the sun shine. Clint considers how privileged he is raising a kid like Coop. Lila’s face then surfaces in his mind; she’s at that age where she’s got one foot in childhood and one foot in pre-teendom. One minute she wants Clint to haul her up for a piggyback ride, the next she wants to pick out her own school outfit and begs Laura’s permission to wear makeup, “just a little lipgloss, pleeeeeeeease.” And then there’s Nathaniel; the boy is hitting milestone after milestone. He enjoys laying against Clint’s chest and turning the pages as Clint reads him bedtime stories; he loves to point at things and recite, “dog”, “horse”, “truck,” eager to display the latest of what he’s learned. And his Laura, his sweet Laura; flashes of their courtship and the life they’ve built together shoot through him.

It hits Clint like a palm strike to his chest that he may never see them again; he may never see his children grow into adulthood. He may never grow old and gray with Laura. The ache settles in deeply, and he blinks rapidly in an attempt to keep tears at bay. One slips out and rolls down the side of his face into the hair at his temple.

All too soon the door is banging open; his tormentor is back. The man carries something in his hand. Clint sees it’s a gallon of milk The Doctor holds and nausea blooms within his gut even though he knows he won’t even be tasting it, even as he knows it’s not inherently harmful. It happens involuntarily. He’s never liked milk, and as a boy his father punished him for mouthing off or any perceived verbal disrespect by making Clint drink it after it’d gone sour. He always became sick, and after cleaning it up, his father took the belt to him.

The Doctor uncaps the jug of milk, lifts it to the funnel, and pours.

“Please. You don’t have to do this. Please don’t do this!” Clint is not proud of his begging.

First, he feels the cold enter his nose, and then it trickles into his throat. This sensation is odd and repulsive, and he grits his teeth together so hard in an effort to not puke he’s afraid they’ll crack and crumble. The Doctor suddenly stops pouring; Clint breathes heavily. He can’t reconcile the feeling of getting full without chewing and swallowing actual food.

“Let’s give that a moment to settle before proceeding.”

Clint lets out a soft cry of helplessness. _Proceeding._ This will continue; The Doctor is going to pour the whole gallon through the tube, and he’s sure his stomach will rip, spilling its contents into his abdominal cavity. Oh, how painful that will be! The tearing of his stomach, the rush of corrosive contents into his insides. He imagines it will be a burning of volcanic proportions. The Doctor then pours more milk down the tube. Clint’s face twists in misery, eyes scrunch closed. Soon the jug empties, and Clint pants like a dog out in the heat of the day. The forehead strap is removed, and he looks down the length of his torso.

His once flat abdomen is now turgid to the point he appears several months pregnant. The milk sloshes like he’s got ocean waves inside him, and he’s finding it hard to breathe. His swollen stomach crowds some of the space for his lungs to expand. Clint wishes he could turn on his side and retch everything up to obtain some relief.

The Doctor places a hand on his engorged belly, and Clint reflexively mewls. If he presses down at all, Clint will spew a mixed fountain of milk and gastric juice. His brain cycles through hundreds of possible punishments he could be subjected to if this happens. Instead, The Doctor circles his palm in a gentle caress, and Clint feels his guard coming down a bit because it feels almost nice. The tension in his body lessens a touch.

When he was a child his mother would rub his stomach tenderly whenever it ached, and whisper soothing words in his ear. Shame charges through him because he doesn’t want this to remind him of her, and he silently apologizes asking her forgiveness.

Clint’s gasps have just begun to lessen when The Doctor’s hand stops. The two look each other in the eye; Clint curses himself for allowing himself to start to relax because he sees the wicked flicker in his adversary’s gaze. He should have known worse was yet to come.


	5. Day 5: Drowning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: slight language, descriptions of drowning/suffocation
> 
> [Here’s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8QunGN1Itg) a video of ice shifting/breaking in what I’m guessing is the Black Sea near Odessa, Ukraine (thus why I placed Clint and Nat near there in the fic, and the description of the sound. So cool! I’m from southeast Texas on the coast; ain’t no ice breaking over there, lol) I struggled with this one; it just didn’t turn out like I’d written it in my head. But I have an idea to build a large fic around this, so maybe I can tighten it up in a rewrite…?

~~Animal Attack~~ || **Drowning**

\- o - o - o - o -

Natasha hears the ice beginning to shift and weaken below her before she sees it, hears the screeching like records being spun in a DJ booth, this squeaky shearing, before seeing the fractures grow and pieces of ice move from where she stands at the epicenter. She looks toward the sea bank just as Clint looks up from where he hunches over a computer, monitoring the feed an underwater camera that Tasha dropped down through a small hole offers. They are somewhere off the grid near Odessa, Ukraine, sent by SHIELD to collect information regarding abandoned nuclear warheads. Scuttlebutt says that HYDRA has plans to troll the coordinates of seabeds where Cold War Era ships and submarines were reported to have sank in order to try and salvage any nuclear reactors or missiles that have been lost and deserted. Clint and Natasha are just one of several teams within SHIELD working in conjunction with groups throughout Europe in attempt to foil those plans.

Though it seems to happen in slow motion, Natasha is still taken aback when she collapses through the ice. She inhales; it’s a knee-jerk reaction, and she gets a mouthful of saltwater. Bobbing up sputtering, she hears Clint yelling at her.

“Nat! Nat! Hang on!”

Clint knows he’s shouldn’t go out to her because then he could fall into the ice as well, and they’d both be screwed. He grabs a throw rope and hurls it to her; his aim true as always, but Natasha disappears once more into the water before she can grab it. Clint’s harsh and worried breaths create clouds around him in the freezing weather.

“Come on, Nat!”

Natasha knows how to swim; she could swim since she was a child, and she could swim well. Swimming was one of the earliest skills taught in the Red Room. Not only did the girls must know how to fight, how to kill, they also needed to know basic survival skills. However, her heavy winter wear is suitable for land, not submerged in frigid water. She pops up again.

“Grab the rope, Nat! Grab the fucking rope, dammit!” Clint’s terrified, and when he’s scared, his vernacular becomes laced with expletives. And he’s _angry_ because he shouldn’t do anything more than throw her a rope.

This time Natasha manages to clutch the rope. She wraps the rope around her waist and goes to tie it. Her fingers are numb and fumbling, and she drops the rope momentarily before she scrambles to grasp it again. She kicks her feet furiously to keep her mouth out of the water, so she’s able to breathe. Natasha can’t feel her fingers, can’t feel herself holding the rope, can’t navigate tying a knot. The rope slips out of her hold, and she’s under again.

She thinks she will just float back up to the surface again like the other two times, but she drifts to the side and hits the underside of a block of ice instead, trapped beneath. Natasha whips her head around looking for the opening in the ice, but her vision is blurry through the haze of water, and her eyes sting. A creeping searing starts spreading in her lungs, her body desperate for oxygen.

Soon it’s a full on feeling of lava churning in her chest flowing all the way down even into her belly. Her brain sends a distress signal, and she involuntarily inhales a breath of water. Nat’s vision is ringed in the dark edges of unconsciousness; in moments, it’ll be complete blackout.

Though it’s only been seconds, to Clint it might as well have been a lifetime since Tasha went under. He says ‘fuck it’, and he crawls onto the ice, splaying himself like a starfish because he knows his best chance of getting to Nat and not falling through himself is to evenly distribute his weight. But this position does not allow for him to move very quickly; he inches along. He’s moving too slow; he’s moving _far too slow_.

_Nat, please, PLEASE! Please hang on; I’m coming! I promise I’m coming. I can’t lose you; I don’t know what will become of me if I lose you._


	6. Day 6: Teeth Knocked Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: descriptions of blood, lost teeth, and ass kicking
> 
> There’s whump in this, but it gets pretty light-hearted toward the end. I needed to write a little bit of fluff into one of these stories.

~~Tortured~~ || **Teeth Knocked Out**

\- o - o - o - o -

Clint Barton is in the middle of a fight, he’s in the middle of a pile of Tracksuit Draculas, he’s in the middle of getting his _ass beat_. It’s one against, like, five. And it’s nothing like in the movies where the hero takes on a group of villains by himself, and the villains wait their turns one at a time. Nope. _All_ of them are wailing on him.

He’s endured a shattered pelvis, broken ribs, a cracked fibula, ulna, and clavicle, a sprained neck, and almost ruptured his spleen among other numerous injuries. It was only a matter of time before one of his teeth became a victim of his “avenging.” But did it really have to be one of his front two teeth? His teeth were so straight and perfect (au natural, he’d add; there’s no way his parents could have afforded braces for him growing up had he needed them).

Clint sweeps his leg to the side, dropping one of the Draculas. He manages to briefly stand up before taking a hit to the gut; while he doubles over, a fist collides with his face. That’s when it happens. A sharp pain rips through his mouth followed by an intense throbbing localized to the front of his gums. Blood immediately bubbles up, and he spats it out on one of his assailants shoes, which probably serves to incense them all the more. His tongue traces his teeth, and he gasps. He feels a _hole_ where one of his big teeth should be!

“Wait! Where’d it go? Where’s my tooth?!”

He forgets about the men pounding him into the ground and scrambles around on all fours looking for the incisor. Clint’s tastebuds are assaulted with the tang of heme; blood is dribbling down his chin into small spatters beneath him, but he focuses on finding the tooth. Maybe they can shove it back in or something, he frantically thinks.

He’s suddenly aware the hits and kicks aimed at him are gradually ceasing, and he lifts his head up to look around. The Eastern European thugs lie dispatched on the ground surrounding him. Clint squints up and sees two slim, feminine forms silhouetted by the sun.

“Oh, hey, Nata-tha,” he lisps. “Hey, Katie.” He smiles at them.

“Clint,” Natasha says. She keeps her arms folded and looks at him for a beat before offering a hand to help him up.

“I like what you’ve done with your teeth,” Kate deadpans.

“Oh, thut up, Bith-op! Nat, thoo you think they can thove it back in?” He says giving her a worried look.

“I hope so; your “I’m nothing but trouble” grin is one of the things that first drew me to you.” She goes to give him a kiss.

“Ow, not thoo hard,” he murmurs. Natasha lays a soft peck on the corner of his lips.

“You might need an implant.”

“How muth will that costh?” He wonders.

“Don’t worry; the Avengers have a great dental plan. It’s called Tony Stark.”

“Until we can get you to the dentist though, Clint, do you need an “ithe pack?” Kate butts in.

“Thut UP!”


	7. Day 7: Influenza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha comes down with the flu. Clint takes care of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: nausea/emeto
> 
> This is a sickfic with a side of comfort.

**Influenza** || ~~Forced to Serve or Perform~~

\- o - o - o - o -

Natasha Romanoff does _not_ get sick, yet after a particularly harsh roil of nausea courses through her, she throws the covers off and retches her partially digested dinner from the previous evening into a wastebasket near the bed. Clint, sleeping next to her, wakes up to his face being attacked by a comforter.

“Who’s there?!” He shouts, groggy, as he sits up and reflexively goes through the motions of nocking an arrow and aiming to shoot. He sobers out of sleep when he hears the gagging next to him.

“Aw, Nat, sweetie.” Clint leans over her hunched form and moves the hair out of her face. His hand brushes her heated cheek. “You have a fever; I’ll get the thermometer.”

Clint retrieves the thermometer, kneels next to Natasha’s face hanging off the edge of the bed, and sticks it in her ear. After a moment, it beeps. “102.2.”

Tasha answers him with another hurl, but barely anything remains in her stomach. All that is coming up is thin gastric juice. When she finishes she lies back on the pillow, panting and shivering. Clint brushes damp hair off her face and forehead and places the sheets and a light blanket over her. Nat reaches for the comforter, but Clint grabs her hand.

“You can’t cover up too much, sweetheart; you’re already hot.”

Nat whines, and Clint apologizes. “I know you feel chilly; I’m sorry.”

After she settles, breathing deeply in through her nose and out through her mouth to push back the residual uneasiness in her belly, Clint grabs the wastebasket.

“You think you’ll be alright for a few minutes if I take the trashcan to wash it out?”

She nods slightly, eyes closed. “Alright, babe,” he tells her. “Be right back.” He lands a gentle kiss on her brow.

On his way back to the bedroom, he fills a bowl with cool water and grabs a washcloth. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he sets the wastebasket down, and dips the washcloth in the water. Natasha murmurs when he begins to gently wipe her face.

“Making you feel a little better?”

“Yeah,” she says softly.

“Do you think you could take some Tylenol and drink a bit of Gatorade? Don’t want you getting dehydrated,” Clint says as he continues to stroke and wipe down her forehead.

“‘K,” she croaks, her throat raw and feeling as though she’s ingested razor blades from the acid and bile she’s vomited. She looks up at him dolefully, and Clint’s heart breaks at her misery. He brings her a couple of pills and the bottle of sports drink.

“I brought you orange; I know it’s your favorite.” She likes the citrus flavor while he prefers fruit punch. Natasha throws back the pills and takes the tiniest sip of drink she can while still swallowing them.

“Just sip on it every so often, so you’re more likely to keep it down.”

Clint makes sure everything is set up within her reach, Gatorade, box of tissues, and definitely the wastebasket, before he crawls back into bed next to her. He props himself up against a couple of pillows at the headboard while Natasha tucks herself in under his right arm at his side, head halfway on his chest. He feels a shudder from a chill run through her and tucks the sheets and blanket in a bit tighter around her and rubs her arm.

“Th’nk you,” Natasha says. It comes out muffled half from sickness and half because her face is pressed into Clint’s ribs.

“Of course, baby; just get some rest.”

Clint brushes his fingers through her hair and leaves a lingering kiss on the top of her head.


	8. Day 8: Strangulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint is strangled, but, don't worry, Natasha saves the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: strangulation, one curse word

~~Overdose~~ || **Strangulation**

\- o - o - o - o -

“Do you know what it’s like to be strangled? To have your life suppressed out of you?”

Clint actually doesn’t know; he’s been fortunate to, more or less, always somehow have an upper hand in a fight. But this is not a fair fight. He is chained between two posts in an X-formation with absolutely no give; a gag tied into his mouth. Like a dog, he wears a collar as well.

“That’s a funny way to put it, isn’t it? ‘Suppressed out.’ But it’s true, is it not? Your breathing suppressed, the blood flow and oxygen suppressed, your brain function suppressed. And then? Poof. You’re out, you’re gone, you’re _dead_.”

His tormentor tightens the collar to the last hole they’re able before refastening the buckle, and Clint’s air supply is immediately cut off. Panic smacks him instantly, and he pulls and tugs and kicks at his chains in a valiant effort to free his limbs. He can’t breathe or exhale; he can’t scream or swallow. The shackles will not yield, even to the brief burst of extra strength Clint must experience from the surge of adrenaline.

Clint’s head throbs with pressure build up, and the pain is so prevalent and severe, he’s certain he’s having an aneurysm. His pulse resonates through his temples, and he can feel the beats growing _slower and slower_.

Clint’s adversary snatches his chin and forces him to look them full on. Clint wishes he could be stoic but distress flames in his eyes. They slowly smile as Clint’s face begins to turn a dusky purple.

 _It’s going to happen_ , Clint thinks as his vision darkens around his periphery. _I’m going to die_. Then all is darkness.

\- o - o - o - o -

When the stirrings of consciousness hit him, Clint feels fingers in his hair gingerly massaging his scalp, and he smells green apples. _Natasha_. She likes to change up the scents of her body wash after she goes through a bottle, and she recently bought one filled with bright green gel that smells of the tart and crisp fruit. He smiles slightly but doesn’t open his eyes just yet.

“Hey, you in there?” Her slightly husky voice reaches his ears.

Clint cracks open one eye, and he appreciates she had the forethought to keep the lights dim. He opens the other eye; he’s in a room in the medical wing of the Triskelion. Natasha sits on the edge of his hospital bed, her hand on his head.

“Hey.” It comes out hoarse and raspy, and fuck, does his throat ache. If he were able to look, he’d probably see some internal bruising down there. “How long I been out?”

“Not quite a day; doctors think I found you pretty quickly after you lost consciousness. But the painkillers they gave you made you pretty drowsy.”

“Injuries?”

“Well, you’ve got a nasty stripe of purple across your neck; bruised laryngeal cartilage that should heal. Your left eye is bloodshot, but that’ll heal too. No major trauma to the carotid arteries or any nerve damage. You’re very lucky, Clint.”

“No brain damage?”

“None that wasn’t already there,” she smirks; she then kisses him, long and ardent. “Don’t _ever_ do that to me again; do you hear me?”

Clint stares into her green eyes, and he sees fear and vulnerability. Two things he knows Natasha only allows him privy to.

“Promise,” he whispers.


	9. Day 9: Starvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Clint are starved in captivity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: descriptions of starvation and emaciation; gritty descriptions of captivity

~~Car Wreck~~ || **Starvation**

\- o - o - o - o -

Natasha and Clint continue languishing in their cages, going on forty days, give or take. Clint would make hash marks to count their time trapped in captivity, but he possesses no tools to do so. Of course their captors wouldn’t allow them anything the two could use to escape. The partners, lovers, aren’t even close enough to touch fingers through the wire; they can only watch the other struggle and suffer.

They aren’t fed much each day; some days they go completely without. Other days they’re given stale scraps of bread or a small serving of white rice, cheap food easy to come by. They know these things are not what their captors eat because they smell the roasting of chicken and grilling of beef, sometimes seafood such as fish and shrimp and fatty, rich sauces simmering. At times they are forced to watch their jailers dine in front of them if that day leaves the villains feeling particularly cruel. Clint and Natasha’s mouths are perpetually watering. They are always given plenty of water though, and the two greedily drink it in an effort to fill their stomachs even though hydration is used to prolong their lives and, thus, their suffering. They’re never let out to relieve themselves, so they’re forced to urinate and defecate in the corners of their cages like ferrets. The stench no longer bothers them as their noses have had plenty of time to acclimate to it.

Their muscles have shrunk and wasted in an effort to provide them with steady nourishment, and Clint thinks about how much rehabilitation they’ll have to endure to return to baseline if they get out. Natasha curls in on herself and shivers, always cold. Her ribs are strikingly visible, and Clint can count every one of them. Her face is angular and spare, and her eyes sit in shadow. He lies on his back, spine aching from the pressure and no fat or muscle to cushion it; he looks down the length of his body, and his hipbones jut painfully toward the ceiling like twin mountain peaks. Clint sees his ribs as well, and they create an empty bowl where his muscled abdomen should be. Fitting because he feels hollowed out.

A beetle skitters near him, and though his lethargy makes his movements jerky and mechanical, he succeeds in catching it between his thumb and forefinger. He looks at it longingly before he flicks it through one of the holes toward Natasha. The insect lands just on the edge of her cage, and she manages to clamp it in her palm. She looks up at him with gratitude laced with shame in her green eyes, and she eats it.

If one of them is to survive long enough to give Phil and Maria more time to find them, he wants it to be her.


	10. Day 10: Dislocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Cooper's toys takes Clint out of commission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: cursing, descriptions of a dislocated shoulder and pain but nothing severe

~~Hyponotized by Whumper~~ || **Dislocation**

\- o - o - o - o -

It started with a rogue LEGO forgotten at the top of the stairs.

With Cooper and Lila’s summer camps falling on the same week, Clint and Laura were left with five days childfree and invited the kids’ “Aunty Nat” for a stay. After a nice dinner and conversation that lasted until around 2 AM, Natasha retired to the guest bedroom while the Bartons headed upstairs. All three were feeling a slight buzz having indulged in a few alcoholic drinks.

Clint wakes up with his stomach and tastebuds hankering for waffles, so as quietly as he can and without disturbing the bed too much to wake Laura just yet, he puts on his flannel robe over his t-shirt and sweatpants and heads to the kitchen barefoot. Cooper must have missed one of his LEGO pieces when he was picking up, and Clint steps right onto it. The sharp angles and edges bite into his instep, and he stumbles.

“Son of a bitch!” He yells, and he tumbles down the stairs into the entryway and lands against the front door. So much for not waking Laura. His barrel roll down also rouses Natasha out of her room.

“What the hell?” She mutters as she makes her way over.

“Oh, Clint, baby!” Laura exclaims and comes downstairs to where Clint lies, managing to miss stepping on the offending LEGO.

“Ow, shit,” Clint winces. “Think I dislocated my shoulder.”

“Gonna have to take the robe off to get a better look,” Natasha says. “I’ll try and do this as gently as I can.”

She succeeds in freeing him, but Clint grimaces and grunts throughout the ordeal. His shoulder twinges with bursts of intense pain like somebody is tasering him. Laura wants nothing more than to comfort him, but she knows she needs to give Nat room to work. She must settle for watching from the side.

“Looks like you’re right.” Natasha observes a large lump near his right scapula where his shoulder has popped out of its socket.

“Well, pop it back in,” Clint tells her, breathing through the hurt.

“Pop it back in?!” Laura cries. “She can’t just pop it back in! We have to get you to an ER.”

“Honey, we’re out in the country; that’s a good thirty minute drive. We have to put my shoulder back in place before heading to the hospital.”

During their exchange, Natasha had gotten a bedsheet out of the linen closet. She wraps it around Clint’s chest and tells Laura to take the ends before going to the side of Clint’s injured arm.

“Alright, Laura, get ready to pull as hard as you can, and Clint…well…you just get ready to scream as hard as you can.”

\- o - o - o - o -

The trio sit in the living room having been back for a couple of hours from getting Clint to the ER for a sling and some painkillers; those make him drowsy and quieter then usual. His lower lip juts out in a small pout.

“Why the sad face, Barton?” Natasha asks from her spot in the easy chair across from the couch. Her feet are tucked underneath her. “I mean, besides the whole arm falling out of place business.”

“Nev’r got m’ waffles,” he mumbles.

“Aw, babe,” Laura says, fingers threading through the soft spikes of his hair. “Breakfast for lunch coming right up.


	11. Day 11: High Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: descriptions of flu-like symptoms, Clint's in a serious situation

~~Forced to Watch~~ || **High Fever**

\- o - o - o - o -

“Malaria?”

“That’s what Dr. Santos said lab tests and what they viewed under the microscope showed.”

“He must have contracted it on assignment in the Savage Land a few weeks ago.”

Director Fury, Phil, and Natasha stand in a small semicircle at the foot of Clint’s hospital bed. He sleeps, albeit fitfully; he shifts and turns frequently but never fully wakes up. An IV line winds from the back of his hand to a bag of antiparisitic medication. Natasha walks over and checks the bag hanging from the stand. “Artesunate” it reads. She knows nothing about it, what it does specifically, but she wants to be informed of everything.

“When did this first start?” Phil turns to her.

“About a week and a half ago. We both thought he was just coming down with the flu. It was just muscle aches, chills, a slight fever. But it got exponentially worse.”

She looks at her boyfriend and partner in crime fighting. Clint’s face looks bleached and colorless; it’s missing its natural tan tone with the slight pink on the apples of his cheeks. A dewy sheen of sweat decorates his brow, and she takes a tissue and dabs it away. He stirs a bit at her touch but remains asleep. Clint’s fatigue increased to the point he barely made it the ten feet from his bed to the bathroom, and he had to lean on the wall behind the toilet with one hand for support, though at that point his kidneys weren’t producing much urine.

“I think we both thought he could fight whatever it was off at home; rest, fluids, all that. Be he never drank anything because he didn’t think he could keep it down and getting to the toilet was like watching him trudge across the Sahara. Then he had the seizure.”

“Febrile,” Phil comments.

“Yeah, sky high fever.” Natasha pauses. “I’m so stupid; he fought the whole time to just stay at home, handle it ‘in house.’ And I played into it because he’s Clint. He’s strong; he’s my boyfriend. He’s…my friend, and he’s been hurt before and sick before, and he always beats it.” Her voice breaks, he eyes fill, but no tears spill over. She blinks them away. Phil and Fury don’t say anything about it or draw attention to it, and she’s grateful for that.

“He’s got the best doctors treating him, Agent Romanoff; SHIELD doesn’t hire anybody but the best,” Fury tells her giving her a look, and Natasha knows he’s not just referring to the medical staff.

“We’ll leave you alone with him,” Phil softly squeezes her shoulder before he and the director leave.

She takes up a seat beside Clint’s bed and grabs his hand; the one without the IV needle. Her thumb rubs circles around the back of it and over his knuckles.

“Listen up, Barton, you better start beating this thing and get back to your goofy ass self. Are you really going to let this amoeba or whatever take you down or are you gonna fight?” The words she says are light-hearted ribbing in nature, but her tone is serious.

Natasha swears she feels a small squeeze on her hand, an answer to her question, and she allows herself a tiny smile and a lot of hope.


	12. Day 12: Migraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint suffers from a migraine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: emeto tw, description of migraine

~~Humiliation~~ || **Migraine**

\- o - o - o - o -

He already began to feel it coming on as he got ready to go into the offices that morning, so it came as no surprise to him that it just steadily became worse as the day passed. Clint was fortunate that he only got a migraine two to three times a year, but when one hit him, man, did it leave him feeling wretched.

He tried to head it off early by throwing down some Advil, but as far as he can tell, it hasn’t made a dent. The pressure the migraine creates in his skull makes Clint feel like his eyes are ready to pop right out, and he sits at his desk clutching his head. He keeps the office lights off and the blinds closed in an effort to shroud himself in as much darkness as he can. Any quantity of light that strikes his pupils feels sharp and shooting. He puts his arms on the desk and buries his face in them. His stomach is beginning to swim with nausea, the cereal he ate this morning suddenly seemingly like a bad idea. He should have skipped breakfast when he first felt the pain in his head and eaten a little something later if he was feeling better.

Clint lies like this for only five minutes before Natasha opens the door allowing fluorescent light from the hallway to spill in. He groans, and she quickly shuts the door. She sees his hearing aids on his desk and gently touches his shoulder. He turns to face her but doesn’t lift his head up; he squints.

 _Migraine?_ She signs.

 _Yeah_.

Natasha’s face turns sympathetic. She then opens the top side drawer of Clint’s desk and pulls out a pair of sunglasses.

 _Thanks. Forgot those were in there_. He slips them on.

 _At least it’s easy to block out sounds_. She gestures to the hearing aids, giving him an understanding smile.

 _Meeting with Fury in five though_. Clint gets up and puts the hearing aids in, and the two agents head to the director’s office.

“Future so bright, you gotta wear shades, Barton?”

Clint figures his boss isn’t really shouting; Fury’s voice is naturally commanding and on the loud side. But right now it sounds as though he’s in a sports stadium surrounded by a raucous crowd of 40,000, and the ache reverberates through his brain. He tries to maintain a poker face, but behind the sunglasses, his eyes water. He breathes in deep and lets it out slowly and controlled.

“Barton?”

Clint ralphs onto Fury’s carpet, bits of Lucky Charms in a pool of milk and chyme. A look of disgust colors the man’s face, and Clint sees him glare at him with his one eye.

“Sir, he has a migraine,” Natasha explains.

The stink eye the director’s giving him lessens a touch. “Maybe you should take the rest of the day and head home.”

Clint just nods slightly, afraid to move his head too much lest he puke again. Natasha guides him out, one hand on his arm, the other on the small of his back because she swears he sways a bit on his feet. They hear Fury ring for housekeeping as she shuts the door behind them.

“I’m just going to lie down in the office,” he tells her when they’re in the hallway. “I can’t drive home just yet; I’ve only got half vision in my eyes.”

“No, no,” she says gently; Natasha knows this happens when the migraine revs up and gets severe. “I’ll take you home and get you settled. Don’t worry about it.”


	13. Day 13: Burned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha receives chemical burns on an assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: description of chemical burns

~~Experimented on by Whumper~~ || **Burned**

\- o - o - o - o -

Natasha was lucky she instinctively turned her face to the side when the box she was carrying self-destructed and ignited a small chemical explosion in her arms, or she could be blind now. She and Clint were on assignment infiltrating an AIM warehouse containing computer hardware destined for global government agencies. However, the problem with this hardware was that AIM had intercepted it from the parent companies in order to lace it with malware designed to circumvent security measures in place to protect sensitive information. This malware would allow AIM to obtain passwords, identities of undercover government agents, mission assignments, and a whole host of other intelligence that when in the wrong hands, would be catastrophic. After implanting the malware, AIM would send the parts along their merry way to their intended destination.

Natasha and Clint were not aware of the self-destruct failsafes AIM had rigged into the boxes designed to be triggered remotely. SHIELD’s plans were to confiscate the tampered with hardware pieces and allow their cryptography and computer intelligence division to analyze the malware to determine exactly which files would be targeted and how the code would allow it past the security measures.

The assignment was not considered successful because the hardware had been destroyed, and Natasha was in the hospital wing being treated for chemical burns. First, she had been made to unclothe and rinse off the chemical for twenty minutes before being put into a hospital gown to get her burns dressed.

The left side of her face along her temple and her ear felt raw, irritated, and exposed like her forearms; she hadn’t seen the damage, but if it was anything like her other wounds, it was bright red and weeping, dermis layer exposed and interstitial fluid unrestrained. Natasha feels as though she’s been flayed. She’s always thought burns were one of the worst injuries, sensitive tissue not meant to be exposed to the air and elements suddenly revealed and unprotected.

“This gel that I’m putting on is a combination of antibiotic and topical analgesic. It’s going to fight infection and lessen the pain,” a doctor explains. He’s right; as soon as the gel is applied, a cooling sensation spreads over her wounds. The doctor dresses them with soft gauze and a bit of tape. “I’ll leave you to get some rest; you let me know if you need anything though.”

“Is that making you feel a little better?” Clint’s been sitting next to her bed this whole time.

She nods, looking down at her hands, but doesn’t say anything; Clint bends his head down and tries to catch her eye.

“What? What is it?” He asks softly.

She mumbles something that he doesn’t quite catch.

“What?”

“Scarring; I’m worried about scarring,” Natasha says and she hangs her head embarrassed. “I know it’s vain and stupid and -“

Clint stops her by kissing her.

“It’s just…it’s my arms and my face; not exactly easy to hide,” she explains.

“It’s not vain or stupid to be concerned about that, Tasha. But give the antibiotic medicine a few days to work and your skin a few days to settle down, and I’m sure Dr. Cho can use the Regeneration Cradle and nobody would ever know.” He stands up and lifts his shirt a bit revealing the area he was shot and where Cho used her device to print him new tissue. “See? Can’t tell.”

Natasha reaches out with delicate fingers and gives his stomach a light touch. Reflexively, he jerks out of the way with a breathy laugh. “Ok, maybe it’s a little more sensitive.”

“Mmm,” she murmurs. “Another place to exploit during playtime.”

Clint places another kiss over the wicked smile she gives him. “Looking forward to it."


	14. Day 14: Dehuminization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: dehumanization, emotional, physical, and sexual abuse, implied brainwashing, dissociation

~~Concussion~~ || **Dehuminization**

\- o - o - o - o -

The Emperor’s hand idly palms her head, his fingers winding in her hair. She kneels next to his throne, nude, the stone floor hard against the bones of her knees, but this is how he has instructed her to sit. Her head is kept down; she is not to look The Emperor or his men in the eye unless addressed. She is not a person in this world; she is an animal.

Natasha hears the heavy door at the entrance of the Grand Chamber strain open, and she looks up tentatively through strands of her red hair hanging in her face. She sees heavy, knee-high military boots approaching, thudding their way across the room, but she doesn’t dare look up beyond that.

“Excellent,” The Emperor addresses. “Mealtime for my pet.”

Natasha sees a tray with a dish of milk and a dish of what looks like tuna fish salad made with mayonnaise and celery placed before her. She’s not a fan of mayonnaise; she’s always been a mustard gal. But she knows better than to refuse what The Emperor provides her. She goes to scoop some of the deli salad with her fingers, but Natasha’s head is sharply yanked back by her hair. The Emperor painfully fists her locks with one hand while running the index finger of the other along her jaw.

“Remember: pets do not use their paws for eating.” He forcefully lets go, pushing her towards the tray, and Natasha lands on all fours. She dips her head to the dish and begins to eat; when she is thirsty, she laps at the milk, making sure to be loud because her master likes to hear her.

“Finished?”

Natasha nods demurely.

“Thank me,” he commands holding out his hand, palm side down. Natasha licks the back of his hand, the salt from dried sweat assaulting her tastebuds. She fights back a gag; showing displeasure will not bode well for her.

“Very good; I think it is time to retire for the night.”

She finds herself in The Emperor’s bed with him; the satin sheets and the air around her are chilly, and she shivers slightly. But The Emperor’s palm that he slides along her belly to her breasts as he caresses and fondles her is warm. She wills her mind to take her from here, far away from here, and she’s suddenly looking in the face of a man. His smile is crooked and cheeky, hair a soft brown, and gray eyes the color of a cloudy sky. He appears friendly, like he’d treat her so nicely. Natasha doesn’t think she’s ever met him or if he even really exists, but he seems familiar to her.

He feels like safety.


	15. Day 15: Branding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha remembers a horrendous ritual she was forced to endure in her past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: description of branding, burning flesh, forced prostitution
> 
> A/N: This is AU where the Red Room isn’t a training facility for espionage and assassins; it’s a brothel-like cult…might explore later in a longer fic. But this scene does end on a good note.

**Branded** || ~~Forcibly Shaved~~

\- o - o - o - o -

On good days, sometimes she completely forgets it exists; this small symbol on her hip created by the cult leader, who called himself the Caretaker, that supposedly gave him a right to her body. A right to rent it out or exploit it himself; Natasha wasn’t the only woman to suffer this branding. The Red Room he’d named it, as a nod to the color most associated with love. Love is what he peddled his scheme about; “lovemaking” and lots of it with lots of people, but only if they paid his asking price. “What more better way to spread love than being so freely giving of our bodies?” He’d preached. The place was filled with everything that was the antithesis of love - abuse, control, ownership.

Today she looks in the full length mirror hanging on the back of the bedroom door in her bra and underwear and can’t help but stare at it. The brand is still colored red even though it’s been years since it happened; Natasha believes it will always appear perpetually angry and inflamed. It did not scar over and turn a shade of white that perhaps could have easily been hidden with makeup or even just within the tone of her skin; it is not the type where the light has to hit it just right for someone to notice. This scar screams for people to notice.

It isn’t a flat scar, flush with her skin, nor is it even gently raised. It appears like it was _carved_ , pieces of her hollowed out and discarded. Essentially it was; the cautery pen slowly chipping and scraping away at her flesh with an ungodly blaze of heat. 

Natasha had been held down by the other girls; when she struggled with all energy and strength she had and almost successfully bucked the engraver off of her, one of the girls had asked why Natasha just couldn’t be tied down. The cult leader explained that all needed to be involved in the ritual; it was to be physical just as much as it was to be emotional and spiritual, and the laying of their hands on Natasha would make it all the more transcendent. Natasha heard the girl who spoke up was later flogged with the leather whip for questioning the Caretaker’s process.

She remembers the sound of the pen; the relatively gentle buzzing and sizzling as it burned her skin that did nothing to beguile the amount of pain it caused. Natasha remembers what it was like to smell herself cooking. The acrid, sulfurous scent that gave way to a burned meat on the coals odor that infiltrated her nostrils and stayed locked in her olfactory nerves for days after.

The scorch that lit up the nerve endings now violently exposed that immediately trailed behind the track of the pen, and the throbbing that tagged along, like her hip had a pulse, Natasha maintains she still feels sometimes. No relief in the way of cool water or aloe vera or anything was given. She lightly touches it, and it mildly stings; the nerves forever interrupted and irritated.

Clint catches her off guard by opening the door.

“Hey, you almost ready to go?” He checks in. When he sees her standing there not dressed yet and the shadowed, haunted look of memory on her face, he knows, and he wraps his arms around her.

“What do you see when you see it?” Natasha’s voice slightly muted by his shoulder.

He pulls back to look at her, arms still encircled around her back. “I don’t see it. But I can tell you what I see when I see _you_. I see a woman who I can’t even begin to comprehend how strong she is, like there is no word in the English language for how strong you are. If there is, I haven’t found it. Nat, it was because of you, because you had the courage to stand up and tell yourself “no more” and to come forward about all the shit that was going on in that place, that kickstarted the take down of that guy. Your courage helped the other girls find their courage to free themselves and testify against him as well. I don’t see the scar; I see you.”

Natasha doesn’t know what to say, so she leans in for a gentle but deep kiss.

“Help me finish getting ready?”


	16. Day 16: Filmed Whump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's torturers record their sessions with him in an effort to create leverage with SHIELD.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is DARK - electrocution; emeto; captivity; thoughts of death; poor, poor Clint

**Filmed Whump** || ~~Sleep Deprivation~~

\- o - o - o - o -

The rusty cell door slides open with an echoing grind, and Clint involuntarily groans. He doesn’t mean to, and anger toward himself rises up. He wants nothing more than to keep his captor from deriving pleasure at his expense. They keep him blindfolded, so he holds no idea how long he’s been here; if it’s night or day. He concedes one good thing regarding the blindfold is it helps him doze a bit, he wouldn’t call it sleeping, as it blocks out all light. He also finds it difficult to find a comfortable position with his hands cuffed behind his back, and it is always hot and humid; the perpetual dampness of sweat clings to him.

Someone grabs him by the upper arm and squeezes a bit harder than necessary, fingers clenching flesh like it’s a ball of clay. They lead him down the hallway, stumbling, tired, listless muscles trying to keep up, to what Clint has been calling to himself The Room. He’s briefly uncuffed before several hands immediately grapple him and wrestle him onto what feels like a metal bed frame, and he’s chained again, arms and legs apart. The bars are cold against his shoulders and his buttocks, and he jumps before his body settles to the sharp temperature change.

This is new; they’ve tied him up and beaten him and whipped him, but they’ve never pursued this set up before. His heart speeds up all the more.

What Clint hears next is all too familiar. He hears the unfolding of a stand, what he learned after the first footage was filmed was a tripod. He knows who these little video clips are intended for, and the thought makes a small amount of heated vomit come up, but, quickly, it’s swallowed down. There’s a small beep as the record button is pressed, and Clint knows the red light is now flashing. The next sound freezes his blood; the static buzz of electricity. His eyes widen beneath the blindfold.

Something touches him on the tender underside of his upper arm, and he shakes violently, followed by an igniting pain that seems like he’s been lit from within with the energy of the sun, and it’s straining to get out. He feels needles stabbing him, and his arm is still seizing, and he’s afraid the muscle contractions are going to break it. The object retreats from his arm, and he pants a few seconds in relief only to have it move to the bottom of his foot. Clint desperately bicycles his leg trying to get away from the shock that rebounds along his nerves, from his heel to the tips of his toes and up through his entire leg. It then moves to the area where his thigh meets his groin, and he hollers.

“Stop! No more! No more!”

His torturer turns to the camera. “Do you see what you’re doing to one of your agents, SHIELD? Your policy of not cooperating with terrorists?”

Tears spill from under the blindfold; his nose tinged red and snot flowing from it. Clint outright weeps. He feels ashamed; fuck, he feels so ashamed. He knows Fury and Coulson and Natasha are viewing these videos, and he doesn’t want to think about how they see him naked and hurt and vulnerable and now _broken_. Fury and Coulson will know he’s weak and unreliable and not fit to continue on as a part of SHIELD, and he’s only just beginning to bond with Natasha. He brought her back with him instead of completing his assignment to kill her only a couple of months ago, and Coulson tasked him with being her trainer and mentor. Fuck, what she must think of him now.

A scary thought claws its way into his mind. A piece of Clint hopes he dies at the hands of his torturers because how can he ever face them again?


	17. Days 17 & 18: Sold at Auction & Forced Nudity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: forced nudity, humiliation, noncon touching, sold into slavery
> 
> A/N: These prompts can easily be put together, and it allows me to kind of catch up, lol

Day 17 - **Sold at Auction** || ~~Poisoned~~

Day 18 - **Forced Nudity** || ~~Dressed by Whumper~~

\- o - o - o - o -

A truck pulls Natasha and Clint in cells atop a flatbed trailer into a large clearing. Other trucks pull other prisoners alongside. A sizable crowd has gathered for what appears as a big event. Carts are scattered selling a variety of food, various smoked meats are laid out and vegetables and noodles sauté with fragrant spices in pots and pans over fires. Vendors at drink carts fill flagons and cups with ale and mead and hot mulled cider. If it wasn’t centered around his current situation, it’d remind Clint of a music festival.

Their purveyor chooses an area to set up shop and with the help of others, unloads Clint and Natasha, their hands and feet bound, and their mouths gagged. Both agents are covered in a garment similar to a loincloth; flaps over their fronts and backs but open along their hips exposing their thighs. Natasha has been given a thick band of cloth to cover her chest. The temperature outside must be in the forties, and both of them quiver with a chill.

A pair of men approach their handler.

"Good afternoon, gentleman,” he greets them. “Come to check out the merchandise?”

“I could use the girl; I’ve no use for the male.”

“I could actually use them both, but I want assurances they are fit.”

“You are free to visually inspect my wares.”

The loincloth covering Clint is unceremoniously yanked off, exposing him to the crowd. Though the weather is wintery, he feels his neck and face begin to flush, and his cheeks turn pink. This is reminiscent of a reoccurring dream he has every so often where he finds himself walking the halls of SHIELD HQ, and people stop mid conversation or mid-stride to stare and gape. It’s then he realizes, horrified, he’s arrived at work naked. However, there is no waking from this nightmare.

A man leans down to scrutinize his genitals, and Clint glares down at him. Why the hell is he checking out his junk? The man looks up at him with a derisive smirk, and Clint knows what he’s thinking. His pride wants to shout about how cold it is outside, but his gag precludes him from doing so.

Natasha’s loincloth and chest strap is roughly cut from her body, and she thinks she feels the blade nick her side near her armpit because there is a sharp sting. The man who is interested in purchasing both of them reaches out and grabs her breasts, and Clint lunges, forgetting his ankles are tied. He falls on his side down in the dirt not being able to break his fall because his hands are roped as well; at least he didn’t land on his face. Natasha shifts and turns trying to get away from the man’s touch.

“No touching the product!” The handler shouts, and the groper retreats.

“They both have good complexions,” one comments. “Both have muscular physiques appropriate for their gender. How are their teeth?”

Clint and Natasha’s lips are yanked out by two attendants, their gums and teeth inspected. “Hmm, nothing appears amiss. No known diseases or disorders?”

“They are perfectly healthy.”

“The male is nicely suited for manual labor.”

“And I could use the woman for breeding; her rounded hips are delightful for birthing. Twenty-five hundred.”

“And two-thousand for the man.”

“I’ll give you seven thousand for the pair.”

“Five thousand for the girl.”

“Thirty-five hundred, the male.”

The seller turns to the man who wants to purchase both of them. “Ten thousand?”

The prospective buyer hesitates and looks between Natasha and Clint, debating on how much he desires to bring home two, new servants to his household. After taking a few moments thought, he shakes his head and concedes. Ten thousand is too steep for him.

They are bought by different people; they’re going to be separated, neither one knowing the other’s fate.


	18. Day 19: Amputation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint thinks there's not much use for a one-armed archer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: amputation, language (as Steve would say)
> 
> A/N: This is another scenario I can see perhaps exploring as part of a larger fic.

**Amputation** || ~~Heat Stroke~~

\- o - o - o - o -

He’s more than capable of being an avenger while deaf, but there’s not much call for a one-armed archer.

He imagines the stares which will be quickly averted once he catches their eyes; the whispers behind cupped hands over mouths. “Did you hear about Hawkeye? Did you see?” “Yeah, how’s he going to shoot a bow and arrow now? Dude’s destined for a desk job. It’s a shame; he was one of the best.” _Was_ one of the best.

And it’s his _left_ arm; he’s a fucking lefty. He writes with it, he eats with it, he _shoots_ with it.

Oh, he’s sure some adaptive way of shooting exists, but he highly doubts it’s feasible in the field when he must rapidly fire off arrows right and left while running or leaping or skidding behind cars or hiding behind trees. No, it would be just recreational for him from now on.

Lila’s just begun taking an interest in archery in earnest, and he’s been taking her out in the backyard, tacking up a target, and guiding her through the steps towards a bullseye. She’s really coming along, seeming to soak up his teaching like a sponge. What’s he going to do now? Teach her to pull back on the fletching with her mouth? Of course, he knows he can still teach her, talk her through the movements, nudge her feet into proper position. But right now, he can’t see anything beyond he is an archer _missing an arm_.

Natasha and Tony sit with him; Natasha tries to comfort him, and Tony prattles on about artificial limb engineering and how it’s come so far just in the past few years and with his mechanical expertise and Stark technology, he can create something amazingly effective and “nearly like the real thing.” He stares out the hospital room window watching the rain patter and trickle down the pane, drops creating little star bursts and glows from the city lights at night; he’s not even really half listening. Clint doesn’t want something nearly like the real thing; he was _his_ fucking arm back.

Slowly, Tony’s near manic talking dies down, and he feels Natasha’s hand gently rubbing his leg. This is the beginning of the second week he’ll be in the hospital since the catastrophic accident that led to his injury. He was swinging from one building to another during a mission; somehow his arm got looped and tangled in the cable, and when he went crashing through a window, his body landed on the room floor while his arm stayed with the cord. Clint doesn’t remember much pain; he guesses that was the endorphins and adrenaline kicking in. He does remember the warmth of blood spreading beneath him, thick like syrup.

“You don’t understand; I hope you never have to understand,” he addresses them, voice quiet and low.

“It’s a transradial amputation, Clint; that’s best case scenario if it was an either or situation,” Tony says. “The limb will work just like a biological limb; you’ll move the fingers and wrist through sensors on your forearm. You can grip things, hold things, pick up things. And we can make it purple if you want; I know that’s ‘your’ color.”

Clint slides his eyes from the window to Tony giving him a disdainful look.

“Ok, not totally purple; maybe -“

Tony is cut off by Clint suddenly flinching and hissing followed by whimpering.

“Phantom pain,” Natasha softly guesses.

“It feels like my arm’s been plugged into an electrical socket and lit on fire, and I can’t even massage it or try to soothe it because there’s nothing fucking there!” His voice rises until he’s shouting.

There’s silence among them for a few moments before Natasha speaks up. “Is it fading away a bit now?”

Clint nods slightly. Tony starts back into his spiel regarding the bionic limb. “With physical therapy and exercise, you’ll be back -“

Again Tony is cut off.

“Can you please go?” Clint requests, hushed.

“Sure.” Tony stands up from his chair to leave; he won’t argue with his teammate.

“You too.” And Natasha’s eyebrows rise in slight surprise.

“Clint -“

“Please.” He is turned toward the window again, and Natasha sees him crying in the reflection. She’s wants to hug him and hold him and let him break down as much as he needs, but she concedes and gets up from her spot on the bed.

“Ok.”

The two leave to give Clint his space.


	19. Days 20, 21, and 22: Public Whump, Whipped, and Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha in punished with a public flogging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: descriptions of wounds caused by whipping

~~Phobia Exploited~~ || **Public Whump**

 ~~Hallucination~~ || **Whipped**

 ~~Deafened~~ || **Punishment**

\- o - o - o - o -

Natasha’s frog-marched to what she deduces is the center of the village. She’s trapped in a country stuck in a time similar to the Victorian Age on a planet that’s not even Earth. Ladies sashay in clusters with each other or on the arm of a beau dressed in tight bodices that create small waists and enhanced busts along with skirts draped over large hoops or petticoats. Some women wear bonnets as well though the sky’s slightly cloudy. Men stroll in trousers and frock coats or coats with tails and top hats. Looking around Natasha thinks it could be a setting right out of a Dickens novel.

Her hands are unbound from behind her back only for her to be bent over a large wheel-like structure, arms and feet tied to either side. She’s now slightly hunched, backside bared. Natasha gets the feeling she’s committed some transgression, though she’s unaware what. She doesn’t speak their language.

A mustachioed man in pale yellow trousers and a forest green coat stands aloft a platform with a piece of parchment in his hand. The groups begin to stop and gather around when they see he’s ready to make his announcement. He shouts in his foreign tongue, voice carrying above the crowd and pointing towards Natasha. The aggregation gasps, and an angry murmur begins among them.

Natasha goes to protest that she doesn’t understand what he’s saying, what’s going on, but another man, who stands beside her wearing an executioner mask and holding a hard leather whip, backhands her hard across the mouth. A burning sting blooms, and she licks her tongue across her bottom lip, tasting iron. She looks down at the man’s hand and sees a large, ornate ring which now probably has her blood on it.

The masked man says a few gruff words to her and rears back with the whip. Natasha resolves not to cry out or scream and tenses her body in anticipation of the blow. When it cracks upon her upper back, she doesn’t yell out, but she certainly gasps audibly. The whip paints a scorching stripe where it strikes her.

He whips her again and again and again; the crowd chanting and encouraging her tormentor. She clenches her jaw and presses her forehead into the wheel structure she is tied to; each hit causes her to jerk slightly. Her back and buttocks are quickly a mass of burning red bands, oozing blood and bordered by shredded ribbons of skin.

The man shows no sign of stopping any time soon, and Natasha’s resolve breaks. She begins to cry.


	20. Days 23 & 24: Forced to Hurt Another & Begging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint begs as he is forced to hurt Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: beating

**Forced to Hurt Another** || ~~Stabbed~~

 **Begging** || ~~Stockholm Syndrome~~

\- o - o - o - o -

“Please! Please don’t do this; you don’t have to do this!”

Clint pleads with his and Natasha’s captor. The large, masked savage stands before them, slapping a nightstick into his palm. He’s told them that it’s Natasha’s turn in “treatment” again, treatment just a term for a brutal beating. Both of the SHIELD agents sport cuts and abrasions, but Clint knows Natasha has caught an infection or sickness of some kind in the past few days. She lies curled on her side; the pale pallor of her face serving to bring out the dark purple of the bruises that pepper it. She’s sweaty, feverish, and weak, and Clint desperately appeals to spare her from another drubbing.

“You’re right; _I_ don’t have to do this.” The man’s voice is abnormally deep, almost distorted. “ _You do_.”

Clint gapes as the baton is held out to him, and he looks at Natasha, worried eyes traveling over her limp form. He numbly takes the weapon and wrings his hands over it in uneasiness.

“Look, please, hit me, beat me, do whatever you want with me, but please, _please_ , don’t touch her. She’s sick and unhealthy right now; it’s not right to subject her to this.”

“I won’t be subjecting her to anything. You will.” His voice is unyielding. “If you don’t, I will make sure something _far worse_ happens to her.”

Clint’s eyes fill with fear and regret, and he shuffles hesitantly over to where Natasha lies weak and faint; her eyes are closed, but Clint kneels and speaks to her anyway in the hope she hears him.

“Tasha, I’m so, so sorry; I don’t know what to do,” he whispers low enough the captor doesn’t here. “I’ll try and fake as much as I can and hit softly as I can.”

Clint visually assesses Natasha’s body; legs and glutei will hurt a lot less than torso and face. There’s more muscle and fat in those areas, and he’s going to try and pull his blows before the full strike hits her. He stands and turns again.

“Please do it to me!” Clint sobs and tries to hand the nightstick back to the man, but it’s slapped away.

“Stop your sniveling, and get on with it. You’re trying my patience.”

Clint draws back the baton, attempting to look like he’s mustering up power, and brings it down on Natasha’s thigh, pulling back instead of following all the way through. She doesn’t really acknowledge his hit beyond moving her leg slightly.

“Do _not_ pull your blows.”

Clint swings, and this time, strikes her full force on her bottom; she groans and turns away. Tears cover his face, and he apologizes profusely as he delivers blow after blow, and she failingly attempts to deflect them. He tries to keep them to the lower half of her body. He’s going to have a hard time living with himself after this, but he doesn’t know what the “far worse” situation he was warned about entails for her.

“Enough of this,” their captor exclaims in impatient disgust. He yanks the baton from Clint’s grip, stalks over to Natasha, and smashes it across the back of her head, and she’s knocked out. On that note, he leaves the two alone in their cell.

Clint leaps to her side; he’s not going to move her with a potential head injury, but he lies down next to her on the cold and unforgiving concrete floor, his front against her back, puts his arm around her, and holds her.

“I’m sorry, Tasha; please forgive me. Please, please forgive me, sweetheart. I love you; I love you.”

He continues to utter sweet words in her ear, hoping she hears him.


	21. Day 25: Blinded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is injured on a mission and must come to terms with a major change to her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: language

~~Whumper in Love~~ || **Blinded**

\- o - o - o - o -

“Ow, shit!”

One would think she’d know where every piece of furniture lay in her apartment, but she finds herself bumping her hips and legs and stubbing her toes on various items. This time it’s a shin into the brick fireplace. It frustrates her that this particular piece of furniture would be a problem because it _doesn’t move._ It’s always been in the same place all the years she’s lived here, and yet she still runs into it.

“Fuck!”

Natasha puts her hand out and pats along the air until she finds the chair she knows is near; the chair she likes to sit in when it’s cold, with a fire roaring, and a cup of tea. She thinks about how simply brewing a cup of tea is now going to be an epic chore, and she considers giving it up because so much can go wrong if she can’t see the flames of the burner on the stove. What if she lights the sleeve of her pajama top or her robe on fire? She hates herself for letting her current situation make her scared and fearful of such innocuous things, how she’s letting her brain spin with anxiety, and Natasha knows she can adapt slowly over time and become more confident. But she’s never been really patient with herself in learning and acquiring new skills because she’s always just been good at that sort of thing, picking them up like lint. It’s one of her attributes that made some of the other girls in the Red Room jealous. _If they saw me now…_

She sits and gently runs her fingers along her leg; she feels the roughened, grazed skin that’s been scraped and the wetness of a slight amount of blood. She slowly stands up, placing one hand on the coffee table she knows is in front of her before taking small, tentative steps down the hallway, hands ping-ponging off either wall as she inches down to the bathroom.

Natasha wasn’t sure what had hit her. One instant she was fighting a pair of foot soldiers at a HYDRA compound, the next she was looking into the brightest and whitest light she’d ever known, aching pain shooting through her eyes and into her skull, like a solar flare to the face. She stumbled back and was grabbed by somebody. That’s all she remembered until she woke up in the hospital.

She opened her eyes, at least she thought she opened her eyes, but it was still dark. She reached up, but something stopped her. Her wrists were strapped to the bed, and she couldn’t move her hands beyond a couple of inches from the bed frame. She fought against the tethers for a few moments, alerting a figure that she was awake before they spoke.

“Easy, Tasha. That was to prevent you from bothering your eyes in your sleep.” The rough and calm voice belongs to Clint.

“Well, I’m not asleep anymore.”

“Just let me get the doctor.”

The doctor releases the straps, and Natasha reaches up to her face.

“Careful,” she warns her. “Your eyes were damaged; there are bandages there. _Gently_ remove the bandages and we’ll assess your vision.”

Natasha gingerly peels the two gauze squares off her eyes and blinks a bit before trying to really focus on the scene in front of her. It’s just a tableau of shifting shadows and muted washes of color. She blinks a bit more, but nothing changes. She gives a small shake of her head.

“Everything is just colorful blurs,” she says flatly.

“That’s encouraging; color is encouraging,” the doctor remarks. “You still have some use of your retinas. To what extent remains to be seen, but there is still a chance for improvement.”

“Complete improvement?”

There’s a pause, a hesitation, and Natasha has her answer.

“I don’t think so,” the doctor tells her gently but truthfully.

So now she finds herself sitting on the floor of her bathroom, pawing through boxes to determine which are full of bandaids and which are full of the pore strips she uses. She’s already found the Neosporin, distinguishing its tube from her toothpaste and liquid makeup based on size and shape. She hears a key placed in the lock of the front door, slide the bolt back, and click open. Clint announces himself.

“I don’t need your help,” Natasha calls.

“I know that; I’m not gonna help you unless you ask. I just came over here because when I was here to feed Liho while you were in the hospital, I noticed the fruit bowl on your counter was refreshed, which means there’s a freshly stocked fridge and pantry that need raiding with my name on ‘em.” Trust Clint to suss out the food situation first and foremost.

By the sound of his voice, she knows he’s now standing in the doorway. Natasha knows he’s here to keep her company, make sure she’s not alone in these first few days adjusting to a completely new way of life. He’s here for here to lean on emotionally. She also knows he won’t help her; he will let her struggle and find her own way through whatever task is at hand all day and all night long unless she specifically asks for his help (or she’s accidentally going to hurt herself). And she loves him for it.

Natasha runs her fingers along the edges of a bandaid, determining it to be one of the large sizes that will cover her leg wound. She peels the wrapping and tabs off of it, smooths it on, crumbles the trash and throws it where she remembers the bin to be.

“Did I make it?”

“Yep,” Clint tell her, a smile in his voice. He then heads toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna find something to eat. You want anything?”

“A bag of popcorn sounds good.”

Natasha gets up and feels her way to the living room and sits on the couch, curling her feet underneath her. She closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths, smelling the popcorn Clint has going in the microwave.

“You wanna listen to another couple of chapters of that audiobook we’re on?” He calls to her.

“Sounds good.” Natasha pulls her phone from her pocket and places it in where she knows the iPhone speaker dock to be on the small end table beside the couch. She hears Clint come over and set a few items down on the coffee table.

“Big bowl of popcorn, Diet Snapple lemon tea for you, full of sugar regular Coke for me.” Clint knows the only reason Natasha has regular Coke in her apartment is for him. If she’s going to down a sugary drink, she wants a Dr. Pepper. Clint reaches an arm past her to turn the audiobook on, but Natasha stops him.

“Clint, it’s only going to be a desk job and paperwork for me now, if that.” Her voice is quiet with a flat affect. No emotion.

“Still important, Nat,” Clint answers with a tone of incredulity. “Your tactical and strategy skills are the best SHIELD’s got; they’ll put you on lead in designing and managing intel gathering missions, rescue and extraction missions, -“

“It’s not the same. I was trained to be in the field. If I’m not in the field, I’m not any use.”

“Do you think that about our computer scientists who spend their work days in front of screens and keyboards? Or about our lab rats who work nine to five with their test tubes and microscopes and whatever else is in the science wing?”

“No,” she admits. “They’re just as vital as anybody else.”

“Ok, then. Give yourself the time to heal; the doctor said there could be some improvement. And we don’t know the extent of that improvement. Might not be right back to where you were before, but it could be significantly better than it is now; you will find a way with this, Nat. You always do. You’re _Natasha_ , for cryin’ out loud.”

Natasha smiles and reaches over to the speaker dock, running her fingers along what edge counting the buttons until she gets to the play button and presses it. She tucks herself into her long-sleeved T-shirt before tucking herself into Clint.


	22. Days 26 & 27: Wetting in Fear and Loss of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine year old Clint tries to clean up after one of his dogs before his father gets home, but he doesn't manage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: child abuse, domestic abuse, abusive language, poor kid!Clint and poor Edith Barton :(

~~Scars~~ || **Wetting in Fear**

 ~~Gagged~~ || **Loss of Hope**

\- o - o - o - o -

Clint runs to the kitchen for the paper towels and cleaner as fast as his nine year old legs can carry him. One of the dogs has messed on the floor, and his daddy is due home any minute. If he sees it, Clint is going to get it. Nothing will be done to Barney; his dad and Barney were always closer. Barney has grown a lot in the past year, shot up about three and a half inches and put on about ten pounds of muscle since starting to lift weights regularly. And Barney was kind of indifferent about the dogs anyway; it was Clint who begged to keep the strays that had shown up one day. And why, _why_ , did it have to be on the carpet of the living room? Why couldn’t the dog have gone on the tile of the kitchen?

Clint sprays some of the cleanser on the offending spot and furiously scrubs at it. Even if he does succeed in cleaning it before his father gets home, the spot isn’t going to dry in time. He still wipes at it. He’d rather be caught cleaning the mess up or after the fact than get caught doing nothing about it. Clint just hopes nothing is done to any of the dogs.

His mother comes into the living room from his parents’ bedroom and sees the scene.

“Oh, Clint, honey,” she says fearfully, both of them knowing what lies in store.

It’s then they hear the creak of the screen door open before the front door knob twisting and pushing open. The screen door is allowed to slam back over the doorway. Clint’s father doesn’t have to take more than two steps in before he’s aware of what’s happened.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, beginning to stalk into the room.

“Honey, he’s cleaning it up; he’s -“ His mother is pushed out of the way and into one of the armchairs. She immediately stands up and goes for her husband’s arm. “Please, relax. Let me fix you a drink.” She pleads. His father slaps her across the mouth, and she gapes, wide-eyed. Clint doesn’t know why she looks so shocked; this isn’t anything new. If he were a bigger, better man, he’d stand up to his father on behalf of his mother.

But he cowers, cleaning supplies next to him forgotten. As his father turns from his mother and rounds on him, he feels warmth spread in his jeans. Shit. Clint puts his knees together and sits back on his heels trying to hide it, but his daddy is ready to punish him, so he’s hauled up from the floor. And his dad sees.

“You pansy ass little shit. Edith, he’s done fucking pissed his pants. You’re as bad as the damn dogs.”

Clint is dragged to the bathroom by his upper arm, and his father manhandles his jeans and underwear down to his ankles. He’s forcefully bent over the edge of the tub; he’s getting the belt.

Even though he’s done this song and dance before, the first blow always takes him aback, and he gasps. He steels himself through the first few strikes, and though he knows his father only hits until he’s a blubbering mess, Clint can’t bring himself to give him the satisfaction too soon, even if it means delaying the end of the whipping. But his grit and resolve finally breaks, and he is sobbing, fat tears running down his sunburned cheeks, snot from his little nose. His father finally stops.

“Take a shower, clean yourself up,” he tells Clint gruffly. “Then wash your fucking filthy, nasty clothes.”

He leaves, and Clint turns on the water, allowing it to warm up while he pulls his shirt and his wet pants off. He catches sight of his backside in the mirror, red welts slashed across his behind and the backs of his thighs. He knows he’s going to have a hard time sitting down, and he wonders what excuse he’s going to give his teacher this time around when she notices him having a hard time staying still in his seat at school.

Clint continues to cry after stepping into the shower, tears mingling with the water now falling on his face. He cries because when is this going to stop? He can’t remember a day when there hasn’t been yelling or raging or a slap. Some days, like today, carry full on beatings. He hates making up stories about the bruises or scrapes because sometimes they’re so numerous they’re hard to keep straight. He’s certain he’s mixed a few up, and he can’t understand why that hasn’t alerted anyone that he needs _help_. Either they’re oblivious or willfully ignorant, not wanting to get “involved.” But he really can’t blame them; who would want to take on his father?

Clint knows Barney is going to be alright. Barney and his father don’t get into it nearly as much as he does with his dad, but he’s sure it’s because he’s not as tough as Barney; Barney works out and enjoys working on cars, even earning a little money helping out a small auto body shop in town. Clint would rather play with the dogs. Clint also likes to help his mother in the kitchen; anything to make her life easier and to spend as much time as he can in her warm presence.

As he soaps up his body, careful to have a soft touch around his wounds, he cries for his mother. She’s the most important person in his world, and he doesn’t always defend her against his dad. His mother hugs him and holds him, kisses him, comforts him, but she does it when his father isn’t around or looking because “that shit is the reason he’s a fairy”, according to his father. His mother tells him it is not his job as a little boy to protect her from his daddy; instead, she apologizes to him for his father not being a proper daddy.

Clint weeps because he doesn’t see any way he can rescue her, his precious mother, from him.


	23. Day 28: Self-Harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: depictions/thoughts of self-harm, self-destructive thoughts, grief, language 
> 
> A/N: So, it’s been a minute since I’ve posted. Y’know, life and issues and such…bleh. This is over a month late, and I’ve got one more February prompt to go, but I’m bound and determined to see it through.

**Self-Harm** || ~~Collared~~

\- o - o - o - o -

Clint wakes up on the couch in the middle of the night on the seventh day angry as hell. He’s only been getting a couple of hours of sleep here and there throughout the days and nights, and that’s only because he exhausts himself crying with the intensity of a toddler. He never falls asleep in the bed he shared with Laura. He can’t imagine laying there, shrouded in the scents of her shampoo and perfume but without her behind him, arms wrapped around him and a leg thrown over his - her favorite sleeping position. It would be like trying to share the bed with her ghost.

He often goes into the kids’ rooms as well, but he also makes sure not to fall asleep in there either because they also have their distinct smells as well - Cooper with his Axe, Lila’s cotton candy scented body spray, and Nate’s smell of baby powder.

At first, he was confused. Where the hell did his family go? He’d turned away from Lila to put away the archery equipment, only for a few seconds, but when he turned back, she was gone. Clint called to his daughter, thinking maybe she was hiding, waiting to spook him, but she didn’t reappear or pop out saying, “Gotcha, dad!”

He looked out toward the field where Cooper and Nathaniel had been tossing a ball, and Laura was setting up their hotdog picnic lunch. They were nowhere to be seen either. The confusion quickly gave way to despondency; something catastrophic happened, and not one member of his family beyond himself had survived it. Everything, _everything_ , he’d worked so hard and so thoroughly to protect with his life was snatched away in a fraction of a second, and he had no idea how to even begin to get them back. Could they even be brought back?

Tonight, around 3:20 AM, Clint wakes up fuming, junkyard dog _mad_. The world still turns; people in businesses left to carry on without colleagues; doctors, nurses, police officers left to shoulder more weight as they struggle to pick up the slack without sacrificing patient care or public safety. Teachers and children suddenly faced with the empty seats of their students and classmates.

The news still broadcasts, and Clint sees the stories of increased crime rates in the wake of the Event. How the fuck were these criminals spared when his _entire_ family, his _innocent_ family, was obliterated? He’s suddenly filled with the desire to obliterate the thugs and crime bosses that survived. Vigilante justice.

But he wonders if this might be some sort of karmic retribution. He was an assassin; he’s got kills under his belt in the name of SHIELD. And there’s the issue of the lives he took while under Loki’s influence. Clint’s heard the rhetoric regarding how it’s “not his fault”; he “wasn’t in his right mind,” and he knows this is true in his head. But his heart just doesn’t receive the message; his heart is perpetually filled with guilt, regret, and the need for penance.

He launches himself from where he was laying on the couch and stalks to the downstairs bathroom with long strides. Once in the bathroom, he yanks the faucet on, gathers some water in his cupped palms, and splashes it on his face. He scrubs and feels the coarse stubble; he hasn’t shaved all week. He hasn’t bathed either, for that matter, and he knows a sour, bodily smell emanates from him.

He takes in his shadowed eyes, the cheekbones beginning to become more prominent, which is to be expected because all he’s had the entire week is a frozen pizza and a couple of packets of Cup-a-Soup. Suddenly, the rage, the heartbreak, the hopelessness, his Pandora’s box of grief he’s holding clamped shut needs to be opened. Clint lashes out and drives his fist into the mirror, shattering it and shredding his knuckles.

The biting sting grounds him, and allows him to slow his breathing and brings relief, like he’s an abscess that’s been lanced and drained of its bacteria-laden pus. Clint gets the rubbing alcohol out of the medicine cabinet along with a couple of cotton balls. The sharp pain of the disinfectant meeting his wounds further serves to calm and soothe him. This type of pain, physical pain, he can deal with.

He picks up a small piece of the broken mirror, about the size of a half dollar, and gently traces it horizontally the width of his forearm; he doesn’t press hard enough to draw blood. Yet. Clint places it in his pocket. It’ll come in handy in future days when he feels too much, when he’s filled to his brim, when the terrible things in his “box” need to be released, and he needs some respite in opening up and spilling over and allowing himself to empty.


	24. Day 29: Comforted by Whumper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finished this challenge, almost half a year later…but it was the first challenge I ever undertook, so I’m proud that I finished at all.

**Comforted by Whumper** || ~~Paralyzed~~

Warnings: child abuse, victim blaming

* * *

“You know you forced my hand, do you not?”

The headmistress’ voice is quiet and gentle behind her. Natasha sits on a table, shirt off, while the woman dresses wounds on her back brought on by a switch. Natasha had been forced to march out into the woods surrounding the Red Room compound with the headmistress, choose a suitable rod to be punished with, and then whipped and beaten by the older woman.

“Yes, headmistress.”

Natasha’s voice is flat; acknowledgement of guilt and fault, whether real or merely perceived, is rote, drilled into the girls in the Black Widow program from day one.

“The other girls, they look up to you. They see you as a leader. When you are insolent, they believe the can be insolent, rebellious. I can not have that.”

“Yes, headmistress.”

Natasha hisses as the stringent antiseptic stings the wounds left behind by the switch. She feels bandages being put in place and taped. The tape pulls tight at her skin when she moves causing an itching sensation; she pulls her shirt back over her head and in place. Her headmistress pulls Natasha to her bosom in a cradling hug, mindful of the wounds on her young charge’s back, and Natasha hates that she is actually finding some bit of soothing comfort from the touch and embrace.

“I am sorry that you’ve made me do this.”

“Yes, headmistress.”


End file.
